


Making Do

by Self_san



Series: When the Earth Kissed the Sky [7]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe-Gender Changes, Always-a-girl!Q, F/M, You and Me and Espionage Make Three
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-20 01:40:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Self_san/pseuds/Self_san
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q hates flying. No, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Making Do

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the wait, got caught up in RL. :)
> 
> Cookies for anyone who can catch the note of another fandom in this one.

At the CIA, Bond is mostly superfluous, standing in the corner while she and the head of the CIA’s technology branch confer over resources and programming.

The man, a tall, well built gentleman with shaggy brown hair and sightless eyes, who, actually, isn’t the pansy that Q had been fearing she would have to deal with, is smart and quick on his feet and, though he hides it well, wants Q there as much as Q wants to be there.

Which is to say, not at all.

Still. Needs must, and the orders to…play-nice with each other came down from on high. So they do.

It’s actually rather nice to speak with someone about the determents of Java and the utter failing that is Steve Jobs. Really.

The man also has his own Bond, as well. A small, thin blonde woman with dark eyes and tall heels that smiles at Bond and Q with a familiar, deadly look in her eyes--sizing them up. The woman always keeps her back to the wall, and she and Bond barely exchange five words the entire time, in addition to the terse greetings.

Q and Anderson effectively spend the day talking shop, sharing obfuscating smiles, and stepping around each other like lions in the same field. They bring their agents coffee/tea when the time comes for them to take a break and dine, and part on amiable enough terms.

It doesn’t prevent Q from building a truly _debilitating_ migraine in the mean time--a throbbing, vicious thing that she doesn’t remember ever having been subject to after what truly amounted to a boring day of bureaucracy and secrecy.

Back at their hotel, Q doesn’t even spare the time to change--they just gather their things and make to the airport to catch their flight.

D.C.’s bright, glaring lights and obnoxious horn-blaring helps not at all, and Q finds herself resting her eyes in the cab, solidly thinking about absolutely _nothing_ in an effort to stave off the agony that’s swirling in behind her eyes.

It doesn’t work, and once they get through checking-in and hurry up to wait for their flight to board, Q is in the throws of a truly bloody _awful_ headache.

Q leaves Bond to watch her bag in order to go and growl at the mouthy barista working at the detestable establishment that is Starbucks in order to procure an astoundingly large cardboard cup of Earl Gray, then over to the book stand to buy three packets of single-dose Advil.

There, the spotty teen working the till takes one look at her face, pales, and stammers while returning her change. She smiles in what is probably a very frightening way, from the look on the boy’s face, and leaves.

The plastic of the bag bites into her arm as she heads back to the terminal--she had grabbed two bottles of water as well, for a ridiculous price, mostly for Bond.

Her tea burns her mouth as she dumps the bag into said-agent’s lap, digging out her pills to rip open the packets with her teeth and upend them into her mouth, along with two Valium and a large swig of tea.

Their flight is boarding within the half-hour, and Q wants to be well and truly drugged before taking step onto the tarmac.

Bond seems to understand, and leaves her to it.

(Q catches him glancing at the dosages printed on the backs of the paper packages from under her lashes as she leans back and sips her tea. It’s amusing, in it’s own way.)

They wait.

*

By the time their number is called, Q is, thankfully, well on her way to being truly mellow, and only vaguely feels like throwing up as they stand.

Q takes the opportunity to tuck her arm into Bond’s as they get into line. Her tea is discarded in a bin as they pass, along with Bond’s bottle of water, and Q buries her chin into her scarf, her hands into the pockets of her old Max Mara coat. Her ears are thankfully warm under a knit-hat that pushes her bangs into her eyes.

Her ankles ache from standing all day, her legs frigid through the thin layer of hose, and her wrists feel stiff and arthritic. She’s almost drugged loose enough to wobble in her heels, and she reasons that 00’s have more than one good use as she lets Bond take some of her weight on his poshly-suited up arm.

(Thankfully, Q had once been able to run in a pair of stilettos while _concussed_ and sporting a set of impressively bruised ribs. It’s like a bike, she figures, and she’s as steady as ever.)

Bond’s hand is warm where it circles one of her wrists, tucking it into his pocket along with his own, his fingers thick and heavy and his shoulder strong, pressed against hers.

Q swallows, tired to the bone, and lets him lead her like a lamb onto the plane.

*

Q sleeps through the flight again, only waking up nearing their descent.

Bond is still awake, and Q leaves him for the time it takes to use the restroom, wash her hands, and then vomit everything she’d eaten in the last year into the loo.

Shaking, she weakly pushes her hair behind her ears.

_Well,_ that _was one way to sober up_ , she thinks, amused and disgusted, her head still slightly fluffy.

_Real sexy, Q_ , she scowls at herself in the mirror, lightly tracing the purple ringing her eyes, fingering her pale lips.

She tries to work something up, _something_ that she can use with Bond when they land.

(Because he must be thinking it, right? Wasn’t the plan to get him home and into her bed? Wasn’t it?)

But she just feels _tired_.

She wants him, yes, but she’s afraid that she’d be passed out beneath him before he even got a hand into her knickers.

Which, really, unless he had a _somnophilia_ _kink_ that was hitherto unknown, Q thinks that would be a rather large turn-off.

She splashes icy water onto her cheeks, rubs it into her neck, her skin clammy and hot and painful, swishes some in her mouth to wipe away the burn of acid around her molars, and stumbles back to her seat.

*

The day gets worse from there.

*

As soon as they land, Q shaking, her eyes pressed closed and her hands fisted onto the arms of her seat, her toes curling under her feet and her teeth digging into her lip, they are summarily escorted off of the plane and into a waiting car.

(Q doesn’t even get the chance to slip back into the shoes she had kicked off after her trip to the bathroom, and carries them, dangling from her hand as she picks her way across the wet pavement. Bond had her computer bag, which he hands to her as soon as they are seated and the car is rolling down the road.)

Still, Q is absurdly grateful to be back on the ground, a waiting cup of tea in her grasp as she logs into the MI6 secured system and pulls up new marching orders.

They are for Bond, and Q feels vaguely annoyed that they are using her as a glorified _messenger_ , but pushes it away as Tanner gets on the phone to her.

She sets him on speaker while Bond quickly peruses the marked files on her computer, flicking through them awkwardly with the touchpad.

Tanner relays that Bond is needed in Austria, three known disciples of a known terrorist have surfaced in a markedly suspicious manner, but they still need to be eliminated from the game.

Bond hums, quips, and hands back Q’s computer as the compartment in the side of the door opens, revealing a new gun and a radio that Q recognizes.

Bond throws her a smile, checking the gun and tucking the radio into his pocket. The car stops, and they’re at the train-station, and Tanner is still on the phone, telling Q to take him off speaker for Christ’s sake, this is for her ears only, and Bond leans over as the driver grabs his luggage from the boot, and Q meets his kiss with one of her own.

It’s rough, their teeth clashing and noses bumping for a moment as they fight for _who_ , exactly, is supposed to be leading _where_ , and Q knows they only have a moment before the driver surfaces and shuts the trunk, revealing them. She grabs a handful of Bond’s closely cropped hair to pull him in for a moment, so close that she can smell his cologne and vividly feel the scrap of his chin against hers, the strength of his arms as he plants them to the seat behind her, and bites his lip to let her slip her tongue into his mouth for a bare instant, just a taste, before she’s pushing him away and out of the car.

The kiss is enough to spark something, deep in Q’s stomach, and it doesn’t matter that all Bond tastes of is alcohol and Q of airplane mints.

He looks shocked, as he blinks, gathering himself enough to straighten his lapels and tug on his cuffs, and Q gives him a look that clearly says, ‘you have _better_ stay alive long enough for more of _that_ , 007,’ before she’s closing the door and putting the still speaking Tanner to her ear.

It’s time to get to work.

*

Q takes the ride to headquarters to shimmy out of her wet hose--balling them up and tucking them into a pocket on her bag, and slip her feet back into her heels.

She fluffs her hair, touches up her eyeliner and adds a bit of lipstick to her pale mouth as Tanner talks, takes the earpiece that’s stored beside Bond’s empty case, and transfers Tanner to that.

Her phone goes into the pocket of her coat, and she pulls up schematics on her computer as he says things like _bombs_ and _004_ and _Prague_ as Q connects into the web that her world works in.

A smile ticks around her mouth.

She really loves her job.


End file.
